


It Wears My Brother's Face

by InFamousHero



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Gen, Vignette, implied Eivor/Randvi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:27:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27769765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InFamousHero/pseuds/InFamousHero
Summary: So that scene after Sigurd comes back to the clan, huh?
Comments: 2
Kudos: 50





	It Wears My Brother's Face

**Author's Note:**

> Look I had some feelings I just had to get out okay.

There is a terrible moment in the stifling silence following Sigurd’s unhinged outburst that the urge to cut down this _thing_ wearing her brother’s face nearly takes possession of Eivor’s blade arm. Immediately she fights it, but the urge was there nonetheless, so sudden and fervent that all other thoughts are chased away like rats scattering in fright.

There is no affection in her brother’s eyes.

Sigurd looks at her like a misbehaving dog he intends to discipline by kicking it senseless.

This man who screams about godhood is not her brother.

He is not her brother when they talk privately amongst the dead, and he is not her brother in the morning as he prowls the village, coolly inspecting all that she has built in his absence and not even deigning to _look_ at her as they pass one another.

As she stands on the docks of Ravensthorpe, watching her crew ready the ship to head out to Essex, a sick, icy feeling weighs heavy in her gut. She is struck by a sense of vertigo so strong it feels as if the world should be heaving under her feet.

She readies to head out because it is the only thing she can do that makes even a ghost of sense. It’s what she’s good at, and she has to believe that right now, despite the anger and hatred in Sigurd’s eyes and the blame he lays at her feet for all that has gone awry.

She had done everything he asked. She had built their people a thriving home in his absence, made allies willing to throw themselves against staggering odds for the clan, fought tirelessly to put their enemies in the ground, and he looked at her as if he would snap her neck given the slightest excuse.

Perhaps she had not been a perfect sister at all times, but _that_ expectation went both ways and his sneering cut about her father snakes through her thoughts.

It would be easy to blame it all on Fulke, if not for Sigurd’s god talk before she got her claws on him. No. That was prompted by Basim. But it would be an easy thing to blame Basim for all of it too.

Sigurd was a grown man in his own right, his ego taken in by notions of divine bloodlines. How important he must have felt to hear such things, how above the likes of simpler folk like her, and Randvi.

And _Randvi._

Had she not been so blindsided by his derision Eivor may have struck her brother for the way he spoke of Randvi, as if the woman who worked so tirelessly to administrate and strategize for the well-being of _his_ clan was a snake in the grass, some shackle placed on his supposed greatness, a malicious obstacle.

Truly, how fate worked against him.

Eivor draws a hand down her face, regret rising like a black cloud within her chest, thunderous and roiling. The man she refused to betray, no matter how strongly she mirrored Randvi’s feelings, is not the man who walks their village now.

She wonders if that man died a long time ago or if he ever existed at all, and she simply saw what she wanted to see.

After last night, her judgement feels shaky at best.

Eivor steps onto her ship, and her thoughts remain mired in doubt as her home falls out of sight behind the river’s bend.

All the effort, the fighting, the death, and running herself ragged to save her brother—who had she brought back, really? And was this man who screamed about his own godly reality a man who would lead her people fairly? A man over whom Dag forced her hand, so convinced Sigurd was the better leader, absent though he was in his self-absorbed pursuit of divinity, in his eagerness to trust a complete stranger.

She couldn't help but wonder if she had brought them a jarl or a tyrant.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this, consider checking out my other fics in case I've written stuff for other fandoms you enjoy o/


End file.
